


Love Is All Around

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Modern AU, musketeers xmas fic, rom com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:39:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based loosely on a tiny part of Love, Actually, this story is sad and silly with an absurd plot and a happy ending.  Mouseover for translation of bad and stilted French.  Translations also in footnotes.</p><p> <i>"But you've been working so hard on it." Porthos looks devastated. "You've been at it all night."</i></p><p> <i>For some ridiculous reason, Athos blushes as if he's been caught having a wank, and his embarrassment only intensifies when Porthos begins to strip out of his painting clothes.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is All Around

The marriage ceremony of Louis and Anna is as impressive as one would expect for a society couple, but, to Athos, it doesn’t come close to his own winter wedding in Prague. At the time, Anne had expressed an interest in having an occasion, but Athos convinced her that if she wanted her bridegroom to actually _be_ there, then it would be best to stick to a pint sized do, with just their real friends as witnesses.

They’ve been married for five years now: the happiest of Athos’ life. The only thing that could make him any happier would be a baby to dote on, but Anne has made it plain that she isn’t ready to be a mother. He hopes she’ll change her mind soon.

Once the ceremony is over, Athos pops back home to see how his wife is feeling. She’s been suffering from a flu bug for the past couple of days, and this morning he insisted that she stay in bed, rather than brave the freezing cold November weather, just to hear Louis and Anna say their vows. With hundreds of guests in attendance, no one would ever notice the absence of one poor sneezy girl.

Opening the front door of their tiny mews house, Athos is surprised to see d’Artagnan standing in the middle of the living room. “Didn’t expect to find you here,” he says, hanging up his coat.

“Well, um.” D’Artagnan’s staring at him, his eyes huge. “I- I was hoping you could give me some extra training in epée this week. I’m not quite getting the latest moves we learned.”

D’Artagnan’s the newest member of his fencing club, a brilliant boy with a brilliant future in the sport, and Athos is proud to mentor him.

“Hurry up and come to bed,” calls Anne.

Athos is confused. How does she know he’s here? The next sentence clarifies the matter.

“I’m naked and I want you to fuck me at least twice, before my grump of a husband gets back from that boring wedding.”

“Oh,” says Athos, icy cold as a wave of self pity sweeps over him. “I’m so stupid,” he mutters.

“Athos, please, I can explain,” says d’Artagnan, looking as sick as Athos feels. “I never meant this to happen. I just…”

“She’s very beautiful. Irresistible, in fact,” says Athos in a monotone. As is d’Artagnan: young and handsome with a future ahead of him, whereas he’s a washed up writer with a contract to churn out hausfrau porn, disguising itself as period erotica.

“Hello, Athos,” says Anne, appearing in the living room, fully dressed and made up, with a careless, slightly callous smile on her face. “I didn’t expect you home so soon.”

Bitterly hurt, Athos stumbles out of the house and, functioning on autopilot, hails a taxi to take him to Aramis’ flat, hoping desperately that his best friend will be in.

“I thought you were at the wedding of the…” Aramis takes in Athos’ stricken face and immediately holds out his arms. “What’s the matter, pet?”

Athos rejects the offer of a hug; he isn’t a physical person, or an emotional one for that matter. Instead, he wraps both arms around himself to try and get some warmth back into his body. In the rush to escape, he'd forgotten to put on his coat. “Anne’s sleeping with d’Artagnan,” he says, and the words catch him by surprise; the truth hard to bear. “I caught them together, so there’s no room for doubt.”

Aramis pulls him inside the flat, insisting on that hug, and just for a moment Athos accepts the comfort.

“How about a glass of wine?” says Aramis when Athos wriggles free of his embrace. “It’s probably too early, but who cares.”

“A bottle or two might help.” Athos manages a faint smile and follows Aramis into the kitchen.

“I can’t believe the little prick would do that to you.”

“I should imagine he has a large prick rather than a little one.” Athos takes the glass offered and raises an eyebrow at his friend.

“Don’t,” said Aramis in a low voice. “I know you. You’ll disappear inside your head for a while, pretending everything’s fine, then you’ll come to the conclusion that it’s all your fault, and kaboom!” He throws his arms wide.

Athos takes a large gulp of wine. Aramis knows him too well. He’s partway to this conclusion already. “I should have tried harder at being married. I wasn’t a good husband.” He sinks into an armchair, staring at the toes of his polished shoes. It suddenly dawns on him that he’s still wearing his wedding suit.

“Athos, you love her.” Aramis perches next to him. “Everyone can see how devoted you are to her. What more could you possibly do? Please don’t tear yourself apart over that bitch.”

“If I’d been more...” More what, Athos wonders. More smiley. More chatty. More physical. A better lover.

“Her behaviour, I’m not surprised at.” Aramis has never liked Anne. “But I thought more of d’Artagnan. Jesus Christ, that kid worships the ground you walk on.”

Athos chokes back a sob. Everything he loves, everything he depends upon has been destroyed in a single blow. His marriage. His friends group. His fencing. “I have to go.” Finishing his wine, he makes a sudden break for freedom. “Please don’t try and stop me, Aramis,” he says as fingers close around his upper arm. “I need to get away. I’ll go to the cabin. I have to finish this damn book and, at least there, I’ll have no interruptions.”

Aramis pats him on the back, hand moving in slow, comforting circles. “Are you looking for a return to your earnest youth, tapping away on that old typewriter?”

“You _do_ know me too well,” smiles Athos, and turning, he leans in and kisses Aramis briefly on the mouth.

“You’ll call often?” says Aramis as Athos climbs into the cab. “And you won’t drink too much of that shitty two euro wine?”

“I’ll stick to one case a day,” promises Athos. “And I’ll be back before Christmas.”

*

Unlocking the front door, Athos prepares himself for a confrontation, but discovers, instead, that the house is empty. Going straight upstairs, deliberately keeping his eyes away from the unmade bed, he changes out of his suit and takes a holdall from the cupboard, emptying the contents of his chest of drawers straight into the bag. He isn’t fussy about clothes. Anything will do.

Booking a ticket on Eurostar, he decides at the last minute to go business première where he can take advantage of the ‘all you can drink’ booze voucher he has tucked away in his desk. At least it’ll numb him from the pangs of rejection and failure. 

The ticket is printing when his mobile rings, and, heart leaping in chest, he makes a grab for the handset, almost knocking it onto the floor in the process. Just for a second he thinks it might be Anne, calling to apologise and tell him what a fool she’s been, but then he looks at the screen and sighs. If he doesn’t answer it Treville will worry. By definition, the man may only be his fencing coach, but he’s been looking after Athos for years: a better parent than his own have ever been. 

“Hello,” he says, his voice weary and dull.

“Athos, are you alright?” Treville sounds more concerned than usual, and alarm bells begin to ring. “D’Artagnan’s with me. He told me what happened.”

"I’m going to France for a while.” Athos pauses to collect his thoughts.

“No, you don’t, young man.” Treville lowers his voice. “The boy’s in a bloody state, and it’s going to do neither of you any good if you run away from this mess.”

Athos wipes away a tear and stutters in a breath. He doesn’t want to hear about how rotten d’Artagnan’s feeling.

“Athos, stay where you are,” insists Treville. “I’m coming right over.”

Athos gets a grip on his emotions. “No, don’t. Please. I need to get away. I’ve promised Aramis that I’ll stay in contact with him.”

There’s a harrumph at the other end of the line. “I don’t like this at all.”

“You don’t like anything.” Athos manages a laugh. “The team will be fine.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the team,” says Teville in a gruff voice.

“Yes, you do,” says Athos. “Tell d’Artagnan…” What was there to say? Maybe one day they could compare notes on his wife’s blow job technique, but not yet. “Tell Anne to clear out of the house by Christmas. She can have the flat.” He’d always hated their new place in Belgravia. 

“I will. Take care of yourself, lad,” says Treville. “I’ll be bugging you often; you can count on it.”

“The phone signal's shit at the park.”

“Then you can bug me as soon as you've got some bars.”

The taxi beeps its horn and, after a swift goodbye, Athos hangs up. Treville makes him feel safe. He protects him. Why couldn’t he have protected him from this?

*

After a long wait at St Pancras, two overnight train journeys and a taxi ride that includes a stop off at the supermarket, Athos isn’t in the best of spirits when he arrives at his home from home, the small waterside lodge at the holiday park in the Limousin. 

The one thing he isn’t expecting, or indeed wanting at nine in the morning, is a reception from the new park manager, who's intimidatingly large and brimming with enthusiasm at meeting his guest.

“Bonjour,” the man says with a huge grin. "Qu'est ce que tu fait?"

Athos’ French is shit at the best of times. Today isn’t the best of times. “Bonjour,” he says. “Je voudrais que tu partes.”

“Bonjour,” says the man again. “Je aimerais vous pour vous aider.”

Isn’t aide something to do with help? The only help Athos requires is the immediate assistance of several bottles of claret. “Excusé moi,” he says politely. “Mais, je veux to get totally pissed out of my skull. Au revoir.” He unlocks the door of the cabin with a hand that’s shaking from exhaustion, then enters, his holdall in one hand and a case of wine clutched against his chest, slamming the door behind him.

The man knocks persistently. “Tu est English. I mean, you’re English. I’m so fucking, sorry about the language, but I’m so fucking happy to have someone to talk to.”

“Great,” says Athos, barricading the door with his body in case of an attempt at forced entry. “Tell you what, I’m a bit tired at the moment, so we’ll speak later.” When hell freezes over.

“Okay,” shouts the manager. “I’m Porthos, by the way. My number is on the info sheet if you need me.”

“Brilliant,” yells Athos. “If I drown in the lake I’ll make sure to call you immediately.”

“Great,” says Porthos. “And you are?”

“Tired,” replies Athos, slumping to the floor and opening the first of what he intends to be many bottles wines. Who needs a glass?

“You okay?” says Porthos.

“Frankly no,” admits Athos. “But if you could just fuck off, I’m certain things will be a hundred percent better.”

“Fine then,” says Porthos, and Athos can hear him muttering about ungrateful, stuck up bastards as he walks away.

The cabin has always been Athos’ favourite place in the world. The la Fères may own houses all over the world, but what he loves best is simplicity, and this small lodge has it in spades.

Draining the remains of the first bottle, he moves straight onto the second, shifting from his place on the cold floor to the small corner sofa and pulling a damp throw blanket over his body. At least there are no memories of Anne to be found here. She wouldn't even deign to come and see it. Wondering in how many of their beds she's had the pleasure of d'Artagnan’s youthful cock, Athos finally allows himself to cry over his loss. Did she ever love him at all?

*

At some point, during those tear drenched, wine soaked hours, he must have crawled into bed. He wakes in a panic, trapped in his half-removed jeans, and falls to the floor in a tangle. His headache is raging, he's close to being sick, and the last thing he needs to see, through the glazed doors that lead out to the deck, is that unbearably happy park manager emerging from the cabin next door.

The man walks to the end of the wooden jetty, strips out of his underpants and t-shirt and dives naked into the lake.

What the fuck is the matter with him, thinks Athos, ignoring a small inner voice which insists that Porthos is the most beautiful creature on earth. It's the end of Autumn and bitterly cold, so why would anyone go wild swimming in an icy fishing lake?

When Porthos pushes himself out of the water and strides back, clothes in hand, Athos watches the mesmerising movement of that long, thick cock as it swings like a pendulum between his legs. If this is him _after_ he's been submerged in icy water...? Athos looks down at what he'd once thought was some perfectly acceptable equipment. Maybe there's a reason Anne went searching elsewhere for her thrills. 

The loud splash makes him look outside once again. From here, he can just see the deck of the next door cabin, where Porthos is now lounging in a hot tub. Oh God! All he’d wanted was some peace to write his wretched book. Now he has to contend with Mr Happy and his monster sidekick as the new next door neighbours.

After a quick shower, in which he stubbornly refuses to think about amazing naked bodies dripping with lake water, Athos gets dressed, eats a croissant and then unearths his ancient typewriter from the cupboard in the living room. 

Carrying that, and a ream of paper, down to the rickety old garden table, he puts on fingerless gloves, a scarf and a ski hat, then cracks his knuckles ready. He has a plan; if he can get a few thousand words of crap done every day, then he'll earn the right to get totally sloshed in the evenings.

Without thinking, a story begins to form: the sad tale of a poor, cuckolded Lord who is slowly put back together, piece by piece, by his loyal servant.

Typing on the old machine is much harder than he remembered, but the clattering of the keys is soothing and when it gets too cold to continue outside, he brings the typewriter indoors and sits up half the night writing his story, ably assisted by a bottle or two of red.

Once Athos remembers to go to bed, sleep comes easy, and, refreshed by his creative spurt, he wakes with a yawn and a stretch, just in time for the morning strip show. Lying on his side, he watches, with the casual detachment of a pay per view, porn enthusiast, as Porthos streaks back to his cabin. For the first time, since the collapse of his marriage, Athos feels the tingling pulse of blood return to his unloved cock. It's good to know he still has some feeling down there. He was beginning to wonder.

*

After three days of frantic writing, disturbed only by Porthos’ morning rituals, Athos jumps up from the bench in shock. Something is very wrong indeed. Lord Eduardo and his plucky valet, Lumio, are now locked in a passionate embrace following Lumio's return to consciousness after that near tragic fall from his horse. This is not the brand of thrill he's been commissioned to write. His middle aged readers will be dismayed by the latest masterpiece from the pen of Olivia Faire.

"Bugger!" he says very loudly. This is the end of day four. He's written almost thirty thousand words and all of them are useless.

"Anything wrong?" says a voice from nearby.

Athos looks around to discover Porthos doing some maintenance on the railings of his cabin. The man puts down his paintbrush and approaches, clearly excited at the opportunity of a conversation.

"No, honestly, it's nothing," Athos says, wondering how someone could manage to look so delectable in old painting clothes. "You're very busy."

"Not really. Just filling up the day." Porthos turns and looks up at Athos' weather beaten lodge. "I'd be happy to do a bit of work on this place for you. I've finished all the rental cabins and I'm bored stupid."

"No. It's quite all right," says Athos, hoping that the man will just go away and leave him be. He's not pissed enough yet to tell him to do so.

"I wouldn't charge," says Porthos hopefully. "I have all the gear on site, and you really need to get something done about the roof, or it's gonna start leaking." He takes a step back to survey the loose shingles, and in doing so, bumps into the table. The empty coffee mug, which has been acting as a paperweight, overbalances and rolls onto the deck, leaving the typed sheets free to fly off like a flock of migrating geese.

"Oh, shit," cries Porthos. "Your book!"

Mutely, Athos watches the pages land in the lake and then, finally, he speaks. "It's fine. It was unpublishable." For _his_ target audience that's for sure, unless he turns the deliciously dark skinned Lumio into a busty wench, which would be unthinkable. Lumio and Eduardo are very much alive and fucking in his head.

"But you've been working so hard on it." Porthos looks devastated. "You've been at it all night."

For some ridiculous reason, Athos blushes as if he's been caught having a wank, and his embarrassment only intensifies when Porthos begins to strip out of his painting clothes. The man is naked beneath the tatty jeans and Athos finally gets a close up of that cock. It's a mouthwatering sight, and he can do nothing but stare openly at it in all its foot long glory.

"I know. It’s big." Porthos looks ashamed. Why would anyone be ashamed of owning that? "You don't need to tell me. I get a load of comments at the gym." He walks to the end of the jetty, loose limbed and at home in his body. "I'm going to rescue your book."

"You don't need to," says Athos in desperation. "It's trash." If any of it is still legible he'll be humiliated. The only answer is to dive in himself and destroy the evidence.

Fully clothed, he enters the water with all the elegance of a cannonball. Fucking hell, it's freezing. Why does Porthos do this every day?

Thankfully, the papers turn out to be unintelligible mush, sinking to the depths of the lake.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," says Porthos, strips of soggy gay romance dangling from his fingers.

Athos would try and offer him some consolation, but unfortunately he's now turning into unintelligible mush and sinking to the depths of the lake, weighed down by jeans, boots and an oversized fisherman's jumper. "Actually," he calls as he's about to vanish into the murky waters. "Would you mind giving me a han-?"

The last thing he hears is an exclamation of horror. After that he's surrounded by muscle and skin and he's sure he can feel distinctive spongy flesh pressing up against him, but that could be a hallucination brought on by the unexpected approach of death.

Lying on the jetty, Athos looks up as Adonis kneels astride him, sparkling in the wintery sunshine, efficiently stripping him of his wet clothes.

"No," he squeaks, trying to cover his modesty which, let's face it, has been submerged in icy water for several minutes and is not at its best.

"You're a prat," says Porthos, ignoring his flailing arms. "Never go in the water with your clothes on. It's only asking for trouble." He offers him a hand up and Athos, now as naked as the day he was born, takes it and gets to his feet. "You have a dip in the hot tub to warm up, and I'll put your clothes in the wash.”

"You don't have to," says Athos, following obediently in a daze. Has this place become a nudist colony, he wonders. Thank God for the strict fencing regime, which keeps him in reasonable shape.

"Least I can do," says Porthos. "I really am sorry."

"Please don't worry yourself." Athos climbs into the hot tub and shivers with delight. "I would have had to rewrite it all anyway. I'm not just saying that. The story had buggered off in the wrong direction." Quite literally. In his head, Eduardo and Lumio are now screwing themselves senseless in that curtained four poster bed, without a single busty wench in sight.

Porthos sighs, clearly not believing him, then disappears inside the cabin with Athos' wet clothes. He returns, a few minutes later, still naked and carrying a bottle and two glasses.

Athos watches in confusion as the man climbs in next to him and pours two large Sauvignons. What is happening here? He's not certain he's ready for this. Well, if _this_ turns out to be what he suspects it might be. But suppose it’s not? Aramis is often naked and is always getting into hot tubs with people, and not only for sex. It's becoming as normal at dinner parties as a toot of coke for the road.

"I know you like your red, but I prefer white," says Porthos.

"I basically just like booze," admits Athos. It's getting dark, the lights are flickering on around the lake, and he wishes that, just once, Anne had come here with him to see how beautiful the park is. She wouldn't have found it beautiful though, he realises with a sudden attack of sadness. She would have thought it the dullest place on earth.

"It's gorgeous here, innit?" says Porthos, his expression one of utter contentment.

“It is indeed.” Athos smiles at him and finishes his wine. "I really have to go," he says. "I have work to get on with." He has a flurry of words in his head, and a story to tell about the anguish of not knowing someone.

"Anything I can do to help?" asks Porthos. "I promise I won't destroy it this time."

"I'll use my laptop," smirks Athos. "It’s safer. Although, if you wouldn't mind giving me a lift to the supermarket tomorrow, I'd be grateful."

"No problem," said Porthos. "Out of wine?"

Athos nods. "To be honest, I'm surprised it lasted me this long," he says as he climbs out of the tub. He'd be getting used to the idea of wandering around in the nude if only it wasn’t so bloody cold. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m Athos, by the way.”

“I know,” says Porthos, with a disarming grin. “But thanks for telling me.”

“Thanks for saving my life,” says Athos.

“Any time.” Porthos spreads out in the tub, his eyes closing. “Just don’t make a habit of drowning.”

Back in his own cabin, all wrapped up in sweatpants and a fleece, Athos begins work again. The words flow just as freely, but this time there’s substance to them rather than fantasy, and when he finally falls into bed, it’s with a renewed belief that he can legitimately call himself an author.

Woken by his usual alarm call, Athos lies on his side in the bed and watches the performance with a leisurely sense of enjoyment. Hardening to the sight of that beautiful body, all dripping with water, he reaches under the covers and pulls at himself until he comes, with a soft sigh of relief, into his waiting hand.

As he washes away the mess, he’s certain he should feel embarrassed by this, but life here--Porthos especially--is refreshingly honest, and to masturbate when aroused seems the most natural thing in the world. It’s only when Anne sashays unerringly into his thoughts, silken and judgemental, that a sense of shame creeps in. This helps him with his novel, but does little to raise his spirits.

“You look done in,” says Porthos, coming by later with an armful of clothes that are warm from the dryer, and a smile on his face that’s even warmer.

“I've been working pretty hard,” says Athos. “I could do with a break.”

“Some food wouldn’t be a bad idea either,” says Porthos, having a sneaky nose through his kitchen cupboards. “Allons y, Athos. Nous sommes partir pour le supermarché.”

“I have a sneaking suspicion that your French is as bad as mine,” smirks Athos.

“I’m crap,” says Porthos, with a pout that’s altogether too cute. “I thought taking an out of season job here would help my language skills, but there’s never anyone around to talk to.”

“Is that the only reason you moved to France?” asks Athos, intrigued as to why a lovely, outgoing man would want to bury himself in the Limousin.

“Well.” Porthos glances sideways at him as they get into the car. “My best mate Charon was mixed up in some very dodgy business. I decided to get the hell away before I got drawn into the mess.”

Athos nods. “Sounds sensible.”

“What about you?” asks Porthos.

“I need a drink to tell you that story.” Athos manages a smile, but it’s barely a tug of the lips. “I promise I will later.”

As they near civilisation, Athos finally remembers to turn on his phone, and it begins to bleat wildly with incoming texts and voice messages.

“Popular man,” remarks Porthos as they pull into a parking space.

“My friend Aramis,” says Athos. “I did a runner and promised him I’d keep in touch. He’s not happy.”

“It must be good to have people who care about you,” says Porthos and he sounds melancholy.

Athos makes a mental note of this, but his priority right now is stopping the threatened rescue mission that was mentioned in the last text. “Aramis, sorry, yeah I’m fine,” he says, phoning him as he follows Porthos into the supermarket. “I haven’t left the park until today.”

“I was in the middle of booking a flight to France,” says Aramis reproachfully. “I was worried. We were _all_ worried. You can’t just disappear like that. You know you can't.”

His whole life, Athos has had a tendency towards bouts of depression, but since being married he’s hardly suffered at all, which, as Aramis tells him often, is the sole reason his friends have tolerated Anne for so long.

“Do you like lobster?” says Porthos. 

Athos shakes his head. 

“Who’s that?” says Aramis.

“No one,” says Athos, loading bottles into the trolley.

“You’re with a deep voiced someone who’s wanting to cook lobster for you,” says Aramis. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Honestly, it’s not what you think. I have to go now,” says Athos. “I’m in a shop.”

“Athos, tell me who that is, or I’ll-”

“There’s nothing to tell, except that I’m fine and I'll be home soon,” interrupts Athos. “Bye, Aramis.”

Smiling, he listens to the many voice mails, deleting them one by one, but the final message wipes every speck of happiness from his face.

“Athos, it’s Anne. I’ve spoken to Richelieu and asked him to begin divorce proceedings. Please don’t be awkward about this. We both know things were wrong from the start. Your solicitor can contact me via Richelieu if you have anything to discuss.”

Athos listens to it again. Why didn't anyone tell _him_ things were wrong from the start? He loved Anne. He still loves her?

“Hey?” Porthos is standing next to him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s-” Athos clams up, choking on a violent wave of sorrow. “I-”

“It’s okay. We’ll go.”

They get to a checkout and Athos hands over hundreds of euros to the cashier, unsure of what he’s actually paying for. Porthos bags up the groceries and leads Athos back to the car.

“You can tell me if you think it’ll help.”

“My wife,” says Athos. “She’s divorcing me. I just found out.”

“Oh, shit,” says Porthos. “I’m sorry.”

They drive back to the park, with Athos unaware of anything but those cruel words which are echoing around and around inside his head. _We both know it was wrong from the start._ Why, then, have they been married for five years? Why has Athos been naïvely happy this entire time?

Before he knows what’s happened, he’s inside the cabin with a glass of red in his hand.

“I’m making dinner for you,” says Porthos. “I love to cook and you need to eat. Sit here and tell me all about it while I get on.”

This seems an impossible task to Athos, and the first words come out stilted and awkward, but then, as he watches Porthos chipping potatoes and slicing mushrooms, his tongue begins to untie and truths, so many truths spill out of his mouth.

"I don't trust easily," he says finally, filling up Porthos' glass from the fridge and his own from the bottle that's warming by the radiator. "But I trusted d'Artagnan. The only thing worse would be if I'd found out she was having an affair with Aramis."

"I don’t reckon he’d do that," says Porthos as he slaps steaks on the griddle. "He sounds like a diamond to me."

"He is." Athos nods, but then he begins to wonder bad things. Is this why Aramis hates Anne so much? He grabs his phone.

 _Did Anne want to fuck you?_ he texts, filling up his glass with the dregs.

The answer comes after a minute or two. _Yes. I'm sorry, Athos._

What does sorry mean in this context, wonders Athos.

_Of course I didn't fuck her, you paranoid freak._

Athos heaves in a sob of relief.

_I hate her. I love you. Stop drinking and go to bed._

_Will do_ , he texts. _Love you too_.

_Now I'm really worried XD. Sleep well, pet._

Athos texts back kisses and puts the phone down, just as Porthos slides a plate in front of him. He reaches for another bottle of wine, but Porthos stills his hand and takes over as sommelier.

"One glass with dinner," he says, opening and pouring. "After you've eaten all your food _then_ you can get pissed."

"Thanks," says Athos, grateful for the restraints. Grateful too for Porthos' company as they tuck in to dinner. "This is amazing,"

"It's steak and chips," laughs Porthos. "It tastes good because you've been living off croissants for days."

"When in France," smirks Athos.

Once the food is all gone and the dishes are washed, they move to the sofa where they sit facing each other, body language open and easy. Athos is only aware of it because he's always being told off by his friends for being so guarded.

"So," says Porthos, topping them up. "Has Aramis been schtupping your missus?"

"No, but apparently she's been trying unsuccessfully to get into his boxers." Athos sighs. "We were talking about starting a family."

"Is that what you want?" Porthos says.

"Yes," says Athos. "At least I thought so." He was certain that a baby would fix everything: past, present and future. He begins to tell Porthos how cold his childhood was. Up until now, only Aramis and Treville were aware of how unhappy he'd been as a boy, shunted off to boarding school at seven, whilst his parents took every overseas posting offered.

"I can't remember my mum," says Porthos. "She died when I was little. I was brought up in a childrens home."

Athos feels like a total shit. "God, that's awful."

"It's no different though, is it?" says Porthos. "To be unloved, or to have no-one to love you."

The connection between them is real and Athos falls forward, pressing his mouth to Porthos’ and kissing him hard. It's been years since he felt that wonderful scrape of beard against his skin, and as Porthos opens up and kisses him back, just as greedily, he realises it's also been years since anyone wanted him.

But then Porthos pulls away. "Too much wine," he says in a gruff voice. "I'm not what you’re after. Best we go to bed, eh?"

"Yes." Athos makes a wild grab and catches hold of a handful of jumper. "Let's go to bed," he says. "Please."

Porthos shakes him off and stands up. "I'll see you tomorrow, mate." He laughs awkwardly. "Once we both recover from our hangovers."

What follows, turns out to be the most miserable time of Athos' life. Not satisfied with playing the witless fool for five years, he's now poured out his entire life story to a kind stranger, then prostrated himself at the man's feet, begging him for sex.

No one could sleep off this amount of humiliation, and so, at four in the morning, he packs up his stuff and calls a taxi, managing to explain his requirements with a combination of drunken Franglais and a lot of shouting. By evening, he's home, sitting in his microcosm of an office, steering clear of the drink and frantically typing away on his computer.

A day or so later, he plucks up the courage to tell people he’s back. 

Aramis is overjoyed to hear from him, but then sulks like a five year old when Athos refuses to come and play. "You're drunk and hiding from me," he insists. "I won't have it."

"I'm not drunk." Athos laughs. He's actually the most sober he's been in years. Three days without a glass of wine is a record breaking attempt at temperance as far as he’s concerned.

"You're a lying little git, Athos."

"Seriously. Do I sound drunk?" he says as he gets a loaf out of the freezer and toasts a couple of slices, the phone in speaker mode on the kitchen top. "I can’t see anyone because I'm busy. I’m in the middle of writing two novels, for heaven’s sake. I've got three weeks to comply with this bollocking contract, after which I'll be done with romance forever."

"Thank fuck for that," says Aramis. "As long as you mean the literary kind."

Athos’ smile grows sadder in nature. He's had it with love, full stop. Anne has put him off women for life, and, as far as men are concerned, there's only Porthos, who made it abundantly clear that he’s not interested. "Of course," he says to shut Aramis up.

"Then I'll leave you in peace until the 21st," says Aramis. "But if you’re a no show at Treville's I'll be dragging you there kicking and screaming."

Athos cringes. The annual fencing club Christmas party is always a time of embarrassment for the socially inept. He often wonders why Aramis has to import so many dreadful games from his après ski nights. This year, however, will be the icing on the cake of humiliation, when Athos has the leading role as poor cuckolded husband, forced to watch his wife snog the tongue off his young protegé in front of all their friends. Great stuff.

*

In a surprise twist of fortune, December turns out to be a success story for Athos. Olivia’s romance novel, complete with busty wenches, has been edited and accepted, whilst a new contract with the publishers has been refused. His own book is also coming along well. It's hard to tear himself away from it, but he has no deadlines and intends to take his time over this one. He has an inkling that it might be quite good.

Christmas shopping has been achieved in the usual man shaped scurry of last minute activity, and he's now standing on Treville’s porch, gaudy Christmas bags in hand, with his finger poised over the door bell.

Before he summons up the courage to push the button, the front door opens and a host of friendly faces stare out at him, most of them bedecked with glitter and face paint.

“Were you ever going to press it?” asks Aramis, his reindeer antlers flashing with tiny led lights. “Or are we not what you’re after?”

Not what you’re after. _Not what you’re after._ Oh fuck. Oh fuck, no. Oh fuck, yes! Leaning forward, Athos grabs Aramis’ face, kisses him soundly on the mouth and shoves the Christmas bags in his hands. “You’re a genius, my darling, and I love you.”

“Thank you,” says Aramis, beaming with delight. “Are you coming in, now that’s been cleared up?”

“I can’t. Sorry. I have to go.”

There’s a loud chorus of no’s. Treville’s clearly arming himself with words, ready for the warpath, and d’Artagnan’s looking miserable in the background.

“I’m fine, I promise. Things couldn’t be better,” says Athos with a grin. “The thing is, I left something important behind in France, and I have to go back immediately.”

Without waiting for objections to be raised, he makes another daring escape, with Aramis standing on the doorstep, yelling blue murder at him as he races up the street. 

“I hate you, Athos de la Fère.”

Athos waves a hand at him as he heads in the direction of the nearest tube station.

“Athos, I don’t hate you. I love you, you prat.”

“I know,” yells Athos.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Too late, thinks Athos. Because he’s about to do just that.

*

After two overnight trains and a taxi journey, Athos arrives at the holiday park in the Limousin, exhausted but relieved to be back.

“Bonjour,” he says to the surly faced park manager. “J’ai perdu mon coeur. Je pense que c’est habitons ici avec tu.”

“Qu'est ce c’est? What?” says Porthos, screwing up his face in confusion.

“You _are_ what I’m after, Porthos. You’re exactly what I’m after.” This is the most scared Athos has ever been. “In fact, you’re everything that I could ever want.”

“But,” says Porthos, taking a step closer. “But you’re not gay.”

“I may be married, but that doesn’t mean I’m entirely straight,” smirks Athos. “The question is, do you want me?”

“Of course I want you, you stuck up bastard,” growls Porthos. “I’ve never wanted anyone so much in my whole bloody life.”

What follows, becomes Athos’ first lesson in true happiness. The two men kiss and kiss and kiss, standing on the deck of Porthos’ cabin with the rain falling on them. They kiss until their faces are sore and they’re both breathless with need. Until Athos takes Porthos by both hands and tugs him inside the cabin.

Bed is perfect. Being a secret, or maybe a not so secret size queen, Athos enjoys nothing more than being spread and stretched and then, ever so slowly, filled to his limits with Porthos.

“But I can never give you a family,” mutters Porthos as they move together. 

Athos really doesn’t want to go into all his issues right now, not with ten inches of cock inside him. He silences Porthos with a finger to his lips followed by a kiss. “I have everything I need right here,” he says. “I just never knew what it was until now.”

“Je t’aime,” mumbles Porthos.

“Je t’aime aussi,” says Athos, kissing him again.

*

Apart from one brief foray to the shops, they spend the entirety of the Christmas season in bed, where Athos has the best time ever, relearning how good it is to be with someone who wants him.

"At least I know you're not faking," he says, licking Porthos' come off his lips. "My turn now."

"Yes, my lord," smirks Porthos as he slides down the bed.

Athos chuckles, thinking of his accidental venture into gay erotica. One day, he might rewrite the story of Eduardo and Lumio, just for fun.

"What's so funny?" Porthos looks up. "You're nobility."

Athos reaches down to stroke his hair. "I'm yours and that's the only title I'll ever want." He sighs with pleasure as Porthos goes down on him. "By the way, we'll be slaughtered if we miss New Year's Eve, so are you ready to meet the family?" 

None of them share a surname, but they're of vital importance to Athos, and this time he knows he's got it right. They'll all adore Porthos, and Porthos will adore them equally in return.

"Anything for you, darling," says Porthos and then, bending his head, he resumes that deliciously slow blow job, which leaves Athos speechless for hours.

*

After the amount of travelling he's done during this past month, Athos has had it up to his eye teeth with trains, and so they arrive back at Heathrow airport on the 29th in plenty of time for Aramis’ infamous fancy dress party.

Emerging from the gate, Athos smiles up at Porthos. “We’ll have one full day of peace before-”

"You’re an utter git for telling us the wrong flight details,” yells Aramis. “It’s a good thing I’ve learned not to trust a word that comes out of your mouth.” 

Athos is grabbed, shaken and mauled to within an inch of his life by his exuberant best friend. 

“And who do we have here?” Aramis continues, looking up in wonder at the other new arrival.

Athos catches hold of Porthos’ hand and proudly presents him to everyone. “This is Porthos.” He grins at d'Artagnan, then leans in to brush a grateful kiss to his cheek. “At least I can be sure you’ll keep your sticky paws off this one," he murmurs, and when d’Artagnan looks back at him, mouth gaping open from nerves, Athos ruffles his hair. "No hard feelings," he says. "‘Though expect me to be seriously tough on you in training."

"There's a lad," says Treville, pulling both him and Porthos in for a quick hug. "My lads." 

The massive warm welcome might be unexpected and unwanted, but it’s wonderful, all the same. Everywhere he looks, Athos sees faces full of love, and he couldn't be more thrilled with this sudden change of direction.

It's going to be his first ever, truly happy New Year.

**Author's Note:**

> Qu'est ce que tu fait? - What have you done?  
> Je voudrais que tu partes - I want you to go.  
> Je aimerais vous pour vous aider. - I would like to help you.  
> Mais, je veux to get totally pissed out of my skull. Au revoir. - But, I want to get totally pissed out of my skull. Goodbye.  
> Allons y, Athos. Nous sommes partir pour le supermarché. - Come on, Athos. We are heading to the supermarket.  
> J’ai perdu mon coeur. Je pense que c’est habitons ici avec tu. - I lost my heart. I think it is living here with you.  
> Qu'est ce c’est? - What is it?  
> Je t’aime - I love you.  
> Je t’aime aussi - I love you too.


End file.
